


Shifting Alliances (Remix)

by Politzania



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate History, Cold War, Do As Peggy Says, Espionage, F/M, fem!Howard Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21779572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Politzania/pseuds/Politzania
Summary: The Soldier is sent on an assignment in Berlin to kidnap a brilliant American engineer and inventor and discovers that she is someone from his forgotten past.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 7
Collections: Bucky Barnes Bingo 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onethingconstant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onethingconstant/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Shifting Alliances](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417504) by [Politzania](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Politzania/pseuds/Politzania). 



> Name of Piece: Shifting Alliances (Remix)  
> Bucky Barnes Bingo Square Filled: C3 -Free Square (Ch1) & K4 - Peggy Carter (Ch2)  
> Rating: Teen  
> Pairing: Bucky/fem!Howard Stark (more or less)  
> Warnings: canon-typical violence, mental & physical abuse (mostly offscreen)  
> Summary: The Soldier is sent on an assignment in Berlin to kidnap a brilliant American engineer and inventor and discovers that she is someone from his forgotten past.

“You must remember, Soldat, that this mission is of utmost importance. Do not disappoint us.” He always remembered his orders; it was everything else that had been taken from him. 

They told him he had been abandoned by his country, left for dead after the accident where he lost both his arm and his memories. They told him the life-saving surgeries and scientific wonder of a prosthetic that his saviors had bestowed on him were a gift to be repaid — that they had a use for a man with his skills. 

They promised him that the drug regimen was necessary for him to retain his health and sanity, as well as granting him strength and speed. They explained that the strenuous training (and punishments for failure) was the best way to make him a worthy soldier. They insisted that the weeks and months he slept away in the cold and the dark were neither lost nor wasted, but instead were a sacrifice to the Motherland, a chance to rest and recuperate. 

He was given no choice but to listen and obey. Asking questions resulted in pain; that was a lesson that he had learned all too well. But he also recognized that he was a weapon aimed at whoever his handlers chose; a tool to be manipulated and put aside when it was no longer of use. But that knowledge did him no good, not as long as he was a slave to the needle and the vault. 

His latest mission was to track down and kidnap a brilliant American engineer and inventor. As the tense standoff between the Soviets and the Americans continued into its second decade after the war, Stark was considered a key resource who, if not able to be turned, would need to be eliminated. As he reviewed the files and photos; he couldn’t shake the thought that his target seemed familiar, that he had known Stark. But he didn’t dare inquire why, knowing that if he were given an answer, it would be a lie, and he would be punished for even daring to ask the question. 

They received notice that Stark was spending the week in Berlin, attending business meetings. The genius industrialist was known to enjoy an evening out in the company of someone young and attractive. It was easy enough to determine which clubs Stark was likely to visit and plant observers accordingly. 

He dressed quickly when the alert came in; receiving a final briefing before making the short drive. His accomplice would arrange a distraction, and he was to whisk his quarry away to a secure location. They were warned that the Stasi were also sniffing around Stark, and to be on the alert. 

As his accomplice went to retrieve their car, the senior Vdova stepped up to him, her ice blue eyes narrowing as she traced a finger along his jawline. “Remember, Yasha, you are only playing a role.” She grasped his chin, blood red fingernails digging in slightly. “You will return to us when you are done. And if you perform your mission well, you will be rewarded.” Her smile was sharp and predatory. “Hail Hydra.” The rote response stuck in his throat; he rasped the words out as she disdainfully released him. 

The owner of the club regularly did business with his superiors, and with a few well-placed words, his accomplice joined the waitstaff for the evening. He himself waited, ever patient, until Stark’s current dinner companion was recalled and he in turn was led to his target’s table. “Madame Stark, may I present Yakov?” 

Upon seeing his target in person, that haunting sense of familiarity struck him like a blow. Yes, he had known her. He had known this woman well once upon a time and had feelings for her, even though he couldn’t remember how or why. 

And she recognized him as well, even if she pretended not to. Her assessing gaze was all too appropriate to his role as her escort for the evening, but it held a hint of surprise, perhaps even shock. She was older than she should have been -- at least from his perspective -- perhaps in her forties, and still a striking woman. 

When had he last stared into those deep, dark eyes, lively and full of ... mischief? Yes, that was the right word for Maria Stark — a flash of memory showed him a pinup sketch of her, those long, shapely legs on display and a pair of goggles perched on her head. ‘Miss Chief’ was written across the back of the clipboard she held just below a generous display of cleavage. A friend had drawn it for him, a friend whose face and name were lost to his memory.

Maria invited him to sit, and they worked their way through meaningless small talk; the cover story that had been drilled into him falling easily from his lips. She kept up her end of the conversation, but her eyes kept straying to his hands. The current fad for wearing gloves had been in his favor, but he wondered if her sharp mechanical mind somehow suspected what was hidden underneath. He unclenched his metal fist, the servos whirring just under the threshold of normal hearing. 

Still struggling with intrusive memories that dissipated the moment he tried to focus on them, he almost missed the moment when his accomplice moved into place, intentionally setting the tray of cherries jubilee too close to the window before departing to take on the role of getaway driver. The curtains caught fire a moment later and he took Maria by the hand to lead her out the back of the club to the car. 

He had expected more of a protest, concern at being bundled into a strange car by a man she barely knew. Maria instead had come willingly, simply stating where her hotel was as if she were catching a ride in a taxi instead of being abducted. She wasn’t a stupid woman, he knew that in his bones. She was playing along for reasons of her own. 

He explained that it wasn’t safe for her to return to her hotel, that she had enemies in the city. It was true; he was not the only agent on her trail. After all, Maria Stark had been a key player in the development of the atom bomb and then had revolutionized the manufacturing world post-war. Hydra and its associates were only one faction in the worldwide power struggle, and she would be a key asset wherever she was.

“I don’t understand -- who are you?” The flutter in her voice was a shade too rehearsed, but it provoked a protective instinct nonetheless. 

“Someone who wishes to keep you safe.” It was true for both personal and professional reasons; he was reminded of the latter as his accomplice pointedly cleared his throat. 

Out of their passenger’s line of sight, the driver held his hand in the shape of a gun. It had been noted in Maria’s file that she often traveled armed, and was a crack shot. However, the somewhat revealing dress she wore provided scant coverage for a concealed weapon. The driver took a sharp corner, giving him a perfect opportunity. Shifting as if to keep his balance, he brushed the back of his hand against the outside of Maria’s leg, checking for a holster. 

The only thing he felt was a warm, firm thigh and the strap of a garter belt. A vivid memory of rolling a precious silk stocking down Maria’s leg as music played on a borrowed Victrola sideswiped him out of nowhere; he found himself blushing hotly and apologizing.

Maria raised an eyebrow at his boldness; whether she was questioning his propriety or the subtle frisking was equally likely. “Well, If you’re going to keep that up, you should call me Maria.” Despite her flirtatious tone, he noted the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was smart; she knew something was afoot. And he knew whoever he had been — whoever he truly was — that man was desperately in love with her.

They arrived at their destination; he escorted her quickly upstairs while his accomplice drove away, hoping to provide whoever might be in pursuit with an alternate target. Their safe house was a corner apartment on the top floor with good sight lines and escape routes, but that was the last thing on his mind once they were finally alone. 

Once the door was safely closed behind them, he stepped close to take his lost love in his arms. “Has it truly been so long, dearest?” He brushed her hair away from her face to finally look his fill; but something was wrong. The scar on her cheek that he loved to kiss was nowhere in evidence. He noted that the shape of her face wasn’t quite right. Maria’s beautifully expressive eyes had flecks of green, while this woman’s were a clear deep brown. 

A storm of emotions swelled up within him; anger warring with confusion; was he being tested, or had his superiors been duped as well? He pushed the impostor against the wall, his arm across his potential enemy’s throat. “You are not Maria!” he snarled. “You lied, they lied, always lies!” 

The woman who was not who she said she was hid her fear well, dropping the pretense to gasp out, “You knew Maria. You ... loved her.” 

Surprised by her comment - both admitting the ruse and acknowledging the connection he’d had with Maria - he eased his hold. The conflict between his mission and his scattered memories left him restless and on edge, but something about this woman still seemed familiar, as if she was someone he had known before. 

He found himself explaining that he was under orders to bring Maria Stark to a secure location. The New York accent that had touched something deep inside him was replaced by a British one as his companion in turn stated that she was playing the role of Maria with a purpose, and that Miss Stark herself was safe. 

She invited him to sit and talk, making herself comfortable on the sofa, but he was still wary of being tricked, taken advantage of, so he remained on his feet. “Why should I trust you?” His anger had bled off, leaving him anxious and sick at heart. “Everyone always lies, keeps secrets from me.”

The woman reeled off a list of personal facts about Maria — including how she’d gotten her scar — and while he couldn’t have recalled any of them on his own, he knew each of them to be true. 

He took his earlier flash of memory and turned it into a question. “And her nickname?” 

“You mean Miss Chief? That she certainly was.” Her reply had a note of fondness in it, as if she and Maria were personally acquainted. 

But he was still reluctant to trust this woman, stopping his restless pacing to stand over her. “So maybe you know Maria after all. Why are you pretending to be her?” 

“I was sent here to flush out an enemy. It seems I may have discovered a friend as well. Now, show me I can trust you. Tell me what you know about her.”

He found it difficult to put into words, explaining he struggled with his memory; that even Maria’s name had meant little to him until he actually saw her. He told her about the sketch that had reminded him of his lost love’s nickname, and she smiled. 

“What else do you remember?” she asked. “Perhaps the name Maria called you? You weren’t Yakov then, were you?”

Her inquiry put him on alert: why would she ask such a question? And what answer could he give? He considered how far afield this operation had gone and what consequences he would face once his superiors discovered what had happened. “I have had many names. My handlers call me Soldier. I need no other identifier.” He tried pacing once again in an effort to calm himself. He needed more intel. “Who are you?” 

“My name is Margaret. I have worked with Maria for a number of years. She is a dear friend, as well. She knows about my purpose here; that I am impersonating her.” 

So this clever woman was an important person, someone who perhaps could be used as leverage. He realized he could salvage something from the situation after all. “I must confirm this change in mission parameters. You may not be as valuable to the cause as Stark is, but you can still be of use.” 

He moved towards the corner table, where the telephone stood, once again keeping his eyes fixed on her. It was at that point the mission started going sideways. She tried to talk him out of making the call, and when that failed, she drugged him with a kiss. He came to sooner than she expected, and their tense standoff was interrupted by a common enemy: the Stasi. 

They fought side by side and an eerie sense of familiarity once again haunted him. Once they’d won their battle, Margaret confessed that there was backup on the way. She made an offer of sanctuary, but he couldn’t accept it. He was a valuable asset who dare not let himself fall into the hands of the enemy. As he turned to make his escape, he found himself saying, “You haven’t seen the last of me,sweetheart.” He then crashed through the window to land the roof of the building next door. He rolled, got to his feet and kept moving.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Soldier rebels, and Bucky finds his way back to Margaret, who is more than willing to aid in his defection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI - brief non-specific reference to physical abuse directed toward Bucky; brief nonspecific vomiting reference.

“Guten Tag. I have a flower delivery for Frau Stark.” 

The clerk looked over his shoulder at the rack of hotel keys. “She’s not in. I can hold them for her here.” 

He shook his head. “The gentleman who ordered these - a powerful man, you would recognize his name - wished to have them delivered directly to her room. He had a very specific arrangement in mind and compensated me well for the effort.” He let his voice trail off as a ten-mark note appeared on the desk. Other than the spare change in his pocket, It was the last of the money he had; the flowers had been expensive. If this ruse didn’t work, he wasn’t sure what to do next. 

The clerk nodded, discreetly picking up the cash as he turned to take Stark’s key off the board. “I see. Allow me to be of service.” They took the elevator to the top floor, then stopped by a utility closet for a vase. The room was a corner suite, spacious and well-lit. Margaret had left some papers on the desk, but otherwise everything appeared to be tidy and in order.

He took the large, unwieldy bouquet and the vase to a table in front of one of the windows. As he fussed with the flowers, he discreetly unlatched the window. The primary objective of this unorthodox mission had been to determine the location of his target; but providing himself with multiple entry points was always a good idea. 

He then plucked two roses out of the arrangement and, taking a brief moment to rub the petals, laid them on the bed to give credence to his story. He couldn’t recall if he’d ever given Maria flowers. It wasn’t likely, as their romance had developed in the middle of a war zone. But he suspected the man he had been -- who he was remembering more and more about as the days passed -- would have found a way. 

He’d gone back to base after escaping the safe house like a damned homing pigeon he'd been in such a state of turmoil that he couldn’t think of anything else to do. He delivered his mission report, albeit with a few minor omissions. Something deep inside him ordered him not to give Margaret away, to keep the ruse going for Maria’s sake, if nothing else. 

And while his accomplice had corroborated the series of events -- having observed both the arrival of the Stasi and of the second group of men -- the senior Vdova was not pleased. “You have cost us the element of surprise,” she hissed before backhanding him. “Now we must take more direct measures.” As he expected, he was disciplined further for his failure to complete his mission; the Vdova taking her usual sadistic pleasure from the act. The marks were mostly healed, but he still flinched as he leaned back against the wall of the elevator.

As he and the hotel clerk rode back down to the lobby, he glanced at the clerk’s nametag: Fritz. Margaret had called him Sergeant Barnes and James during their conversation. That was what had been on his dogtags, but no one who really knew him used those names. To Maria, he had been Jamie, or one of a dozen other affectionate nicknames. To his squadmates, he’d been Sarge or Barnesy. To his best friend, his brother in all but blood, he’d been Bucky. 

He could somehow accept that he’d forgotten his own name, but my god, how had he forgotten Steve? They’d known each other since they were kids; nearly two decades’ worth of recollections flickered through Bucky’s mind like a well-shuffled pack of cards. The sudden return of those memories triggered a tangle of emotions he didn’t have the time or energy to deal with, so he pushed them aside. He had a mission to finish. 

Bucky left the hotel and retrieved his rucksack from the train station locker. It and the clothes on his back were his only belongings now that he was on his own. He had overheard a phone conversation between the Vdova and Zola the morning after his failed mission where she had expressed concerns about the Asset’s mental state. 

Chills had run up Bucky’s spine when the Vdova asked Hydra’s chief technologist about the status of his new ‘treatment tool’. “We need something that will wipe the Soldat’s personal memory - make him into a clean slate without impacting any of his skills. Can your chair do that?” That was the final tipping point for Bucky; he’d rather die on the run than be their slave any longer. 

He raided the records room at the base for anything related to his own situation before sneaking away and disappearing into the bowels of the city. That had been nearly a week ago, and Bucky was struggling. He’d suspected for some time that his amnesia wasn’t just a result of his accident; that the drug regimen he was subjected to affected his memory. Over the last couple of days, he’d been experiencing symptoms of withdrawal and it wasn't pleasant. 

He’d finally tracked down Margaret in hopes that her offer was still on the table, and had come up with the ruse to find where her room was. After spending his last few pfennig on a cup of coffee and a sweet roll, Bucky followed a group of American tourists into the hotel. While the clerk was distracted trying to decipher their broken German, he found the stairwell and climbed up to the top floor. 

Bucky jimmied the lock open with his sharpest knife; then opened the door carefully; he wouldn’t have been surprised if the infamous Agent Carter had booby-trapped her room against intruders. He remembered her now as well; one of the few who had seen Steve for who he really was all along. She had been sharp as a tack and twice as pointed; Bucky had joked with Steve more than once that if Peggy had been put in charge of the Allied forces, Hitler would have been begging for mercy in no time at all. 

But the war had been over for two decades, and former allies had become bitter enemies in a war of words and covert operations. If he surrendered to Carter and whoever she reported to, who was to say they wouldn’t make a similar use of his skill set? But he didn’t have a choice; the moment he’d left the Hydra base, he’d burned his bridges and drawn a target on his back. 

The room seemed stuffy to him, so he opened the window he’d unlatched earlier, then shifted the desk so the door would be in his peripheral vision. He sat down, looking over the papers that lay there. They were all related to former Hydra bases located in Soviet territory — it seemed Carter was doing her own research based on the mystery of his existence. 

It wasn’t long before the words were swimming before his eyes; the combination of mental and physical exhaustion finally catching up with him. But his system went back on alert the moment he heard a key in the lock. As she stepped into the room, Bucky forced a casual tone into his voice. “Toldja you hadn’t seen the last of me, Margaret. Or should I say Agent Carter?”

He waited to see what she would do -- run or call for help (unlikely) or pull out a pistol and place him under arrest (much more likely). Once again, she surprised him by doing neither. “It’s actually Director Carter, now. I’ve made some progress over the past twenty years.” Her reply sounded matter-of-fact as well, despite the tenseness in her frame. 

While he’d been aware of the time that had passed -- the shift in fashions, the dates on the newspapers -- to have it stated so baldly shook him. “That long, huh? Haveta t-t-take your word for it.” Bucky cursed the weakness that his stutter betrayed; he disguised the shakiness of his hands as best he could with an idle tap on the desk. 

It didn’t help that her reply had brought another painful question to his mind. He wasn’t strong enough to ask it outright, instead saying “So, do you use your maiden name for professional reasons, like a Hollywood actress?”

“No. I’ve never married. Steve ... was lost in the war.” 

“So, they didn’t lie to me about that.” The armrest of the chair splintered as his metal hand clenched into a fist, the one-two punch of anger and sorrow shattering his control. He had a vague memory of Zola telling him during an examination that, “Your Captain cannot save you again, he is dead.” The comment hadn’t made much sense to him then, but it hit hard now. 

“He was supposed to stay home where it was safe!” Bucky gritted out. On “home” and “safe”, he pounded the desk, leaving dents in its surface. “But no, you and Erskine and Stark had to make him a g-g-goddamned hero.”

He looked up to see a measure of his long-denied grief reflected in Margaret’s eyes. She had loved Steve, that much was clear, and still missed him. “He was always a hero. Surely you know that.” 

“Punk never knew when to c-c-call it quits.” He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath through his nose in an attempt to calm himself. He showed her the thick folder of documents he’d brought with him, and when she asked if that meant he was defecting, Bucky couldn’t resist a bit of dramatics. “I throw myself on your m-m-mercy, milady.” 

He stood to make a mock-bow, and nearly lost his balance. She stepped forward, but he put his hands up to fend her off. “Watch it, sweetheart. Haven’t you heard I’m a dangerous man? A d-d-deadly assassin?”

“You’re not well, are you, Sergeant?” 

That was an understatement; Bucky rolled up his sleeve to show off fading needle marks. “I’ve missed a couple of t-t-treatments.” Carter gave him a questioning look, and he found himself continuing. “The shots keep me f-f-fast, keep me s-s-strong. Make me forget. Make me obey.” 

The mix of concern and fury on her face was a sight to see, but her voice remained steady as she asked him whether she could call for a doctor. That was the last thing Bucky wanted; he barely got out the words to reject the idea, instead asking for a drink and some sleep. 

She helped him over to the bed, firmly grasping his metal arm without a word, then passed over a glass of water when Bucky held that hand out, as his flesh one was shaking too badly. Carter even knelt to take his boots off and pulled the blankets over him as he finally let himself rest. 

It didn’t last, of course — Bucky startled awake what felt like only moments later. Finding himself in unfamiliar surroundings and still haunted by shadowy horrors, his first instinct was to defend himself. “Soldier, stand down. You are in a secure location. There is no immediate danger.” The woman was not the Vdova, but spoke in an equally authoritative voice. 

As he caught his breath, Bucky remembered his current circumstances and put his knife down. In a softer, more sympathetic tone, Carter asked how he was feeling and offered him some tea and toast. Unfortunately, his stomach didn’t cooperate, but she appeared unfazed, holding out the wastebasket, then suggesting that he rest some more as she attended to some business. He didn’t dare ask whether that business had anything to do with him. 

Despite his physical exhaustion, Bucky chose to stay awake instead of facing nightmares again. He filled several sheets of the hotel stationery with random recollections while giving the tea and toast another try. 

A key rattled in the door; too tired for either fight or flight, Bucky awaited his fate. He hadn’t expected her to return by herself. “Welcome back, Director. Surprised you’re alone.”

“No one else knows you’re here, Sergeant. I thought it might ... complicate matters.”

“Yeah, aiding and abetting an international criminal makes for a bit of a ‘sticky wicket’, don’t it, English?”

She smiled at his cricket reference, and it took years off her appearance. “I’ve bowled stickier ones,” she replied airily. When she commented that he looked better, he explained that his spells came and went, and that he’d finished off the tea and toast. She set down a white container of something called egg drop soup; it smelled heavenly. 

As Bucky dug in, Carter told him she had to go to Paris that very night, and asked if he could obtain travel documents identifying him as American. She obviously expected him to travel with her, despite the danger it would put her in. 

He tried to dissuade her, but with a wry smile on her face, she simply replied, “Who would suspect a young man escorting his beloved aunt from Ohio on a visit to the City of Lights?”

He shook his head with a small huff of laughter. “I’d forgotten just how damned clever you are, Carter.”


End file.
